


Roses of Red

by turtle_paced



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4525902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtle_paced/pseuds/turtle_paced
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery's never seen anyone die before. She's never killed a man before. At Margaery's second wedding there's a first time for both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses of Red

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for a canonical character death and mentions of rape and sexual assault. We're talking about Joffrey, after all. A good deal of dialogue taken directly from ASOS, which is definitely not mine and I definitely do not take credit for.

“My dear daughter,” Margaery’s father said, the night before her second wedding, “You will be the most beautiful Queen the Seven Kingdoms have ever had.”

“Oh, Father,” Margaery replied. “You flatter me.”

It was true. Margaery knew she was beautiful, very beautiful even, but nobody would ever call Margaery Tyrell the _most_ beautiful woman in the world and mean it. Except her father and brothers, of course, and Margaery was very happy with that state of affairs. She would probably like it if her husband would call her _most beautiful_ , but Joffrey never would and Tommen was too young to think of beautiful women. At the moment.

“Hardly,” Father told her. “You will do well tomorrow.”

He had said all this before her first wedding, to poor Renly Baratheon. And Margaery _had_ done well that day; even Grandmother had said so. She had said her vows, smiled through the feast and blushed at the bedding – then kept her silence. Poor Renly.

Margaery could keep a secret.

It was to her grandmother that she went to next. She could not say what anxiety drove her. She could keep a secret, even one so big as this. She had kept it thus far, hadn’t she? She just wanted a touch of reassurance. Besides, she still had reservations over one tiny aspect of the plan. Just one.

When Margaery entered her grandmother’s rooms, Olenna Tyrell snapped, “What is it, girl?” She called every woman younger than herself _girl_. Margaery knew better than to be offended.

“It’s about tomorrow, Grandmother,” Margaery said. 

“I _see_ ,” her grandmother said. “Out, all of you,” she ordered her attendants. “Except you.” Butterbumps halted in his tracks. “I need some music to drown out my fool granddaughter’s complaints.”

Once Butterbumps was noisily singing _Ten Fair Maids_ , Lady Olenna asked, “Getting cold feet, are you?”

“Not truly, grandmother.” All she had to do was not drink from the wedding chalice after her grandmother’s signal. It was so simple, and so easy. One sip and a king would die.

It was getting away with it that was the difficult part. And the part that Margaery was having difficulty with.

“Then what, by all the gods, are you bothering me about at this hour?” 

“Must we? Lady Sansa –“ 

“Of course we must,” Lady Olenna interrupted. “Joffrey is doomed one way or another. If we don’t do it like this, your fool of a brother will murder your brute of a husband over your own battered body, and that will get us nothing. Except maybe more war, and the sort that won’t make even your father happy.”

“Garlan and Leonette like them.” Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa, that was.

“They’ll get over it,” Olenna waved it off. “Those two like just about everyone, whether or not they should. Besides, they like you and Loras better.” When Margaery made no reply, her grandmother continued, “I know you feel sorry for the Stark girl, but it’s her or your brother. Cersei and Tywin must have someone to blame for what we’re going to do.”

“And better her than Loras,” Margaery said. “I know, grandmother. I just wish we didn’t have to do it like this.” 

“You’ll get over it too,” Lady Olenna said. “If you’re going to survive here you’ll probably have to do worse. Now shoo. Run along. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow. Why we can’t just skip to the feast I’ll never know.”

And for all Margaery was to be crowned queen of the Seven Kingdoms the next day, she ran along as instructed.

 

\---

 

Sansa Stark was the stuff of haunting, tragic ballads and of nightmares. At three and ten, she was the fairest maid Margaery had ever seen. At six and ten, she would likely be the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms and for a long way beyond.

But she probably wouldn’t live to see six and ten. 

Sansa was alone, with no father or mother, no brothers or sisters. She _used_ to have them, but now they were dead, and Sansa left to mourn their deaths in silence. Her family’s killers had her wed to one of their own, the ugliest man in Westeros. Her only aunt and only cousin were far away in the Vale, and either unwilling or unable to protect her.

Without her family there to help her, all Sansa’s beauty only caused her trouble, and her Stark name brought her only strife and sorrow. She was coveted like a precious jewel – not thought of as a woman who lived and grieved.

Margaery had enjoyed the younger girl’s company well enough. Quiet, decorous, and courageous in her way, she would have made a good wife for Willas (though she thinks Willas might have preferred a more intelligent woman). The Lannisters put an end to it, and so they had to stop including Sansa in their company. It did not stop Margaery feeling sorry for her.

Sansa wandered the Red Keep alone, a tall fair girl with hair of red and blue eyes so sad grown men wept to see her. If it were safe to do so, Margaery suspected the bards would be composing songs to her beauty. Perhaps bards leaving King’s Landing used her description sometimes, when they sang of a fair maiden in distress.

Sansa Stark made only the most perfunctory visits to the sept these days. Instead she spent her time in the Red Keep’s godswood, praying to her murdered father’s northern gods. The old ones, that promised blood for blood. It was, so clearly, all that she had left to hope for.

Maybe she would even rejoice to see Joffrey die.

Above all things, Margaery did not intend to end up like Sansa Stark. She would not let the Lannisters take _her_ family from her.

 

\---

 

Margaery had to wake at the crack of dawn to prepare for the breakfast. Small mercies that the breakfast gown was simpler by far than either her wedding dress or the one she would wear to the reception. Nor was it like to fall off her shoulders or shed pearls at the slightest movement.

It was made of a deep teal silk, one of her favourite shades, an apology of sorts from her mother.

“I know white is dull,” Lady Alerie had said as she had supervised the fitting of Margaery’s wedding dress, “but it’s better than every man and woman in Westeros questioning your maidenhood. And you’ll only have to wear it once.” Perhaps twice, gods be willing, but they did not speak of that.

Then together they had ordered an outrageous amount of seed pearls added to the skirts, just to make wedding white that little less boring. “I’ll see you have something special for your maiden’s cloak too,” Lady Alerie had said.

For now it was good to wear a dress it only took a single handmaid to help her with.

She went down exactly on time. She had to. There would be people waiting to give her gifts, and there would be a tight schedule today. The wedding itself was to be at noon. 

It was easy to smile through the breakfast. She had her mother on one side and her grandmother on the other. Elinor, Megga, and Alla weren’t far away. It was almost a normal feast.

“Aren’t you glad we’re dining separately from your betrothed and his family?” Alinor asked. “One queen per dining room is quite enough.”

“Oooh, but she’s missing out on Joffrey,” Megga said. “I wonder how his doublet is cut today.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for me to get to know Joffrey later,” Margaery said calmly. She had not thought she could be so calm in this sort of situation. “I have the rest of his life to see him in all sorts of tight doublets. Without them, too.” 

Joffrey’s life would end before the day itself did. Handsome he might be, but she would not rue the missed opportunity. There were more important things in life. Such as her own life, and Loras’.

“And in time I’m sure Queen Cersei and I will be the very best of friends,” Margaery added.

It made Alinor laugh.

 

\---

 

Cersei Lannister hated Margaery like poison. Cersei Lannister hated everyone except her children, her father, and her twin, but she especially hated Margaery and Sansa. Her hate was as obvious as the reasons for it.

Some women retained their beauty late into life, or found a new kind as they aged. Margaery’s mother was like that. Lady Alerie Tyrell might not have the fresh face she had when she was a maid of eight and ten, but her smile could still warm a cold room. Her hair, though grey now, shone gently in every light she passed.

Margaery thought Cersei Lannister would not be so fortunate.

Worse, she thought that Cersei didn’t know. It was sad, a bit, but also dangerous. Very dangerous. Cersei’s power would wane with her beauty, but there would still be plenty of time for her to lash out at any perceived threat. Margaery was a perceived threat.

_A woman needs to be loved_. That was one of Margaery’s first lessons. _Your husband’s love can protect you, or that of his bannermen and smallfolk._

Margaery’s mother had added, _and that of your father and brothers, if worst should come to worst. Do not forget your own value, either, my daughter. You can see how your grandmother protects your father._

Nobody seemed to have ever told Cersei Lannister anything like that. She loved nobody except her children, and was loved by nobody, except perhaps the Kingslayer, who wasn’t here. That was sad too, but it was another thing that made Cersei dangerous. She was an unhappy woman, and a vicious one, and one with too few people to lose. 

Margaery did not want to end up like Cersei Lannister either.

 

\---

 

After she was dressed for the wedding, there came a knock on her door. Her brother Garlan entered when she called. “Your maiden’s cloak, your soon-to-be-grace,” he said with a smile.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” Green velvet, deep and richly coloured, covered in cloth-of-gold roses. Her cousins clustered around her to agree. It was a shame she would only be wearing it for a few hours. “Thank you, Garlan!”

“Thank our lady mother,” he said. “It was her design.”

“Thank you _for bringing it_ , Garlan.”

He smiled. “It’s good to see you happy, Margaery.” He hesitated. “May I speak to you alone, my sister?”

Margaery nodded to her cousins and dismissed their maids. “There,” she said. “We’re as alone as we can be here.” Nowhere in the Red Keep was ever truly free from listening ears. 

Garlan knew it as well as she, for he said, “I wonder to see you so happy.” 

“Weddings are joyous occasions, dear brother,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be happy?”

There had apparently been an incident of sorts at the men’s breakfast. Joffrey had sliced up the book Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa had presented him with. A rare and valuable book, she had heard. Willas would have been beside himself, were he there. Then Joffrey had threatened to rape Sansa, as he had the day Lord Tyrion and Sansa were wed. 

Some part of Margaery could not help but think of Joffrey’s insults to his uncle and Sansa as a good thing. If Lord Tywin and Queen Cersei decided Lord Tyrion and Sansa had murdered Joffrey, they would not be looking into Margaery or her grandmother. 

Poor Sansa. There was nothing Margaery could do for her. 

“I remember the days before you wed Lord Renly,” Garlan said. “How nervous you were. I’ve never seen you so nervous around a man as you were that day.” 

Margaery smiled. “This is my second wedding,” she said. “It’s not as scary the second time. Trust me on this.”

“This is different,” Garlan replied. There was heat in his voice now. “We all knew Lord Renly well. Are you truly content to wed a man you know so little of?”

“Grandmother has put my mind at ease. I will make it through today perfectly well. You need not fear for me.”

“You know Loras will be distraught to see you wed. In all the world there is no woman he loves better, not even Mother.” 

“Loras need not fear for me either,” Margaery said. “I haven’t spoken to him much of my feelings, it’s true, but it will all be fine. If you cannot take my word for it, take Grandmother’s. She knows whereof she speaks.”

It did not seem to cheer Garlan, exactly, but it did seem to reassure him somewhat. “I just worry about you,” he said. “This is a dangerous place and _queen_ is a dangerous title.” 

With Joffrey for a husband and Cersei for a goodmother, that was only so clear. But Joffrey would only be her husband for a few hours. Grandmother had promised he would not live to see Margaery’s bed. “It’s a wedding,” Margaery said. “No harm will come to me.”

“Robb Stark would have said the same, I wager,” Garlan replied. “But I take your point. You look beautiful, Margaery. And remember, Willas, Loras and I will always be there for you if you need us.”

 

\---

 

Her father walked her down the aisle, and Margaery thought he might burst with pride. You’d have thought he was the one to be crowned today instead of her. Her smile at her father was genuine; his desire to give her a crown _was_ very sweet of him. 

Joffrey waited for her at the altar, handsome as he ever was. He smiled at her. He did have a beautiful smile. No doubt the two of them made a welcome sight for the mob, if one ignored the fact that Joffrey had been known to casually shoot his crossbow at the city’s smallfolk. 

Outside, the crowds had shouted her name. _A woman needs to be loved._ Off to the side, Loras was impeccable in Kingsguard white. She was safe while this marriage lasted. That should only be a few hours past nightfall.

The vows came easily to her tongue. It was not hard to smile at her betrothed. There was pleasure in the crown she’d have, pleasure in making her father proud, pleasure in protecting Loras from his own hotheadedness. Her dear brother wouldn't know what they'd saved him from for a while.

Joffrey returned those vows just as easily. She wondered if they meant a thing to him. In many ways he was a mystery to her. Not one she intended to solve, either. 

At last her father bent to take her maiden’s cloak from her shoulders. It was a heavy garment and the sept was warm; she was glad to be rid of it. Mace gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he took the cloak. He moved to stand behind her as Joffrey flourished her bride’s cloak. 

It was red and gold, the colours of House Lannister. If every eye in the sept had not been upon her, Margaery would have raised an eyebrow. Cersei was truly brazen. 

Since they were, Margaery kept smiling as Joffrey supposedly-Baratheon draped his Lannister cloak over her.

Then there was the kiss. Margaery had kissed and been kissed before. Lord Renly had been a far better kisser than Joffrey was, which was unsurprising. Renly had known something of bedding.

Her grandmother was going to kill this boy tonight, and Margaery would help her.  The hour was rapidly approaching. She could do this. She had to do this. 

“My king,” she said, the first words she had spoken to him off script today, “shall we go outside and greet the people?”

“Why not?” Joff said without hesitation, and offered her his arm.

They stood under the statue of Baelor in the courtyard, in full view of the smallfolk, in the very courtyard where Joffrey had ordered Eddard Stark beheaded as a traitor. Cruel _and_ stupid, Margaery thought. More sparrows came to the city every day, and they muttered about the profaning of their holy place.

Not today, though. Today the crowds shouted _Margaery!_ and all the Lannisters filed past her to give her their blessings. Cersei Lannister looked like she wished Margaery would drop dead on the spot.

This part, she had to admit, was gratifying.

 

\---

 

Joffrey had always been the problem in this Tyrell-Lannister alliance.

The rumours had spread through Renly’s camp fast enough. Smallfolk shot, singers mutilated, and not least, Eddard Stark executed. Lady Sansa’s frightened admissions had only confirmed it.

Margaery had watched her betrothed carefully over the past few moons. She had her own evidence as she watched the king’s eyes following Lady Sansa hungrily around the great hall one day. It wasn’t Sansa’s figure or her teats that he liked – it was her tears and her trembling. 

Margaery could not give him that. Margaery _would not_ give him that. So Joffrey would never want her the way he wanted Sansa Stark. It couldn’t be helped, and none of her family, least of all herself, were eager for Margaery to earn Joffrey’s desire in such a fashion.

When she made some friends amongst the Red Keep’s staff, they told her Lady Sansa had been beaten, more than once, for Joffrey’s amusement. Once he had had her stripped before the whole court to do so, and instructed the Kingsguard to leave her face untouched so she would still be pretty.

Small wonder Sansa trembled. For Sansa, who had nobody, fear of Joffrey was the only sensible response. 

Margaery would like to believe that she will never have nobody. Her father would stop at nothing to protect her, and with Loras in Kingsguard white beside her, she could not help but feel safe. She knew that anyone who tried to hurt her would be repaid in blood. 

It was her logical mind that told her that there was always Sansa, Sansa who likely thought the same once, a few seats down at table, ghosting through the halls, a silence in the sept. Had Eddard Stark loved his daughter? If he had, his love had been a poor shield.

Then there was Cersei Lannister, whose loathing Margaery could always feel like a potential dagger at her back. Cersei had a Kingsguard brother too, but Margaery’s eyes and ears in the castle staff told her Robert had sometimes struck his queen. A Kingsguard brother was not enough either.

Joffrey was unmanageable. Nobody could reliably protect her from his cruelties.

Dead men, on the other hand, could be managed just fine.

 

\---

 

There was no time for her to talk to her grandmother before the reception. She didn’t need to. She knew the signal, she knew her role, everything was worked out. There was no turning back. 

Still, she could have used some reassurance. 

“Very good,” her mother said, when she saw Margaery in her dress for the reception. “You look lovely, Margaery.”

“I don’t like the bodice much,” she replied. How was she going to get a good breath of air to scream in horror with?

“But your husband will. He will not be able to look away.” Lady Alerie smiled. “My little girl, all grown up.”

“Mother,” Margaery said, “This is my _second_ wedding. I know how they go.” Many a maid dreamed of wedding a handsome lord. Margaery had wed two. 

“That is true,” Lady Alerie said. “You’ve been married more times than I. Soon _I_ will be asking _you_ for advice.” Margaery would be married thrice before her seventeenth nameday. It was an absurd thought, and one that would have pleased her well enough ten years ago. Three weddings, how exciting, without a thought as to what might happen to a maid for her to be wed thrice.

“When do we go down to the hall?” 

“In a little while,” her mother said. “You are to be the last two to arrive. I believe I saw some white horses being prepared.”

Margaery sighed. “Horsehair all over my gown.” At least it would be white horsehair on a pale green gown.

“Feasts are messy,” Lady Alerie said, unruffled. “You will likely get wine stains on it as well.” Not to mention, if this was to be a more traditional wedding, this gown would be torn apart at the bedding. It would not get to that point.

Her grandmother could not have known when she planned today’s events what would befall Robb Stark and his men at his uncle’s wedding. Between the two it seemed there would be an entirely new tradition for kings and weddings.

It was late in the afternoon before Margaery went to meet her new husband in the courtyard, and the sun was still unseasonably warm on her bare shoulders. Her king was wearing red and gold and black, the emphasis this time on the gold and the black, minimising the red. She wondered if Cersei had protested. “My queen,” he greeted her.

Margaery curtsied. “My king,” she replied.

“I have a gift for you,” Joffrey said. “It would please me if you would wear it tonight.” At a gesture, a page (one of those pages _not_ clutching a sack of rose petals) came forth bearing a golden crown on a red velvet cushion. 

“It’s beautiful,” Margaery said. “Thank you, your grace.” She bent slightly to allow Joffrey to place it on her head himself. He was surprisingly gentle. She’d half expected him to smash the metal carelessly onto her skull. He helped her into her saddle, the pages ran on ahead, and together they rode into the hall.

The feast opened with a toast to her, the queen. _Margaery!_ the shouts came again. _To the queen!_  

Margaery had not expected the day to be in any measure enjoyable. She was wed, however temporarily, to a monster, but as long as she kept her attention on the singers and the lavish food, the feast itself was rather wonderful. She would rather keep her attention there, but she had a job to do.

She made sure the wedding chalice was always full of dark Arbor red and encouraged Joffrey to drink frequently. She herself took only small sips. She would need a clear head later in the evening.

Garlan and Leonette, she saw, were seated almost at the very the end of the high table, next to Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion. Amongst all the green and gold and crimson, Sansa stood out in white-trimmed grey. Margaery’s heart ached for what was going to be done to her this evening.

At least, at the very least, Sansa would see Joffrey die. 

Then she would probably be thrown into a cell to rot.

Margaery had to protect herself. She had to protect Loras. This was the only way. Besides, it was far too late now. 

For now, Garlan, Leonette, and Tyrion seemed to be having a decent time of it. There was laughter coming from that direction, anyway. And well it might; Galyeon of Cuy’s song was ridiculous. Margaery turned her attention back to the process of getting Joffrey drunk.

After Galyeon had finished, Joffrey barked out a laugh. “Queen Margaery,” he said, “I have another treat for us.”

He stood abruptly, and called out, “Bring on my royal jousters!” 

Margaery could not have been more shocked at the unusual pair who entered the hall then. Dwarf entertainers, riding a pig and a dog, one dressed in Stark livery and the other in Baratheon colours.

She could not help but smile. The gods had blessed the Tyrells tonight. She would be forever safe from Joffrey, Loras would be saved, and her family’s future assured.

Joff, cruel stupid child that he was, made matters even worse for himself. He climbed on the table to make further sport of his uncle. “Who else will challenge our tiny champion? Uncle! You’ll defend the honour of my realm, won’t you? You can ride the pig!”

Lord Tyrion, who could be as stupid as his nephew but who was always better with words, climbed on his own table to reply. “Only if you’ll ride the dog!” 

And when Joffrey asked, “Why me?” Lord Tyrion delivered the final blow.

“You’re the only man in this hall I’m certain of defeating!”

Margaery dearly wanted to laugh along with the crowd. It was a good line. Lord Tyrion was a very funny man. She restrained herself to a slight giggle, covering her mouth with her hand as if ashamed of her reaction. 

She also made sure Joffrey saw.

Her husband instantly went even redder in the face than the wine had made him already, and stalked off in the direction of Tyrion and Sansa, full wedding chalice in hand.

Lady Olenna had seen as well.

Margaery followed Joffrey, who was already pouring his wine over his uncle’s head. In front of half the nobles of the realm he would humiliate his own blood kin. Lord Tyrion had been Hand of the King not so long hence.

“My sweet king,” she said, “come, return to your place, there’s another singer waiting.” 

Her grandmother had caught up. “Alaric of Eysen,” Lady Olenna said. “I do so hope he plays us _The Rains of Castamere_. It’s been an hour, I’ve forgotten how it goes.” 

“Ser Addam has a toast he wants to make as well,” Margaery entreated. “Please, your grace.”

Joffrey was not done humiliating his uncle. He insisted that Lord Tyrion be his cupbearer. It had to be now. Lady Olenna would not get a better opportunity. 

Margaery let Joffrey lead her to the pie at Lord Tywin’s prompting, leaving the chalice behind them. She could not see, but even now her grandmother would be making a show of her frailty, leaning on the edge of the table, slipping the poison in while every eye was on Margaery and her king. 

They cut into the wedding pie together – the last time she would touch Joffrey. She was holding a dead man’s hand. It was a dead man’s grip that whirled her around under the flurry of doves, a dead man’s antics she laughed at.

Lady Olenna discreetly gave her the signal. It could be only minutes away now.

Joffrey would return to his uncle’s place at table to retrieve the wedding chalice. He would not pass up yet another chance to make sport of him, not after that quip about the jousting. Margaery knew him well enough for that. Even now the poison would be waiting for him in the wine.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sansa Stark stand, so much easier to spot than her husband. They were making to leave the feast.

Joffrey saw. Joffrey went. Margaery went with him, not on his arm but by his side. She had to be near. She had to be ready to scream and weep. 

“Serve me my wine,” Joff said to Tyrion, and suddenly Margaery truly did want to weep. This had been so easy. Lord Tyrion didn’t know what he was doing. She watched as Joffrey drank deep of poison.

Now what, she wondered. Would he drop dead where he stood? Margaery did not know much of poisons. “My lord, we should return to our places,” she said. “Lord Buckler wants to toast us.” 

She did not know what Lord Buckler wanted, but soon it would not matter. For these last few seconds, in front of Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa, she had to keep up the act. It was hard, waiting. Soon. Soon.

“It’s ill luck not to eat the pie,” Joffrey said to his uncle. He started to cough. 

“Your grace?” Margaery said. She had to keep the facade. It was starting. Would it be fast? She hoped so. She wanted this done.

Joffrey tried to speak. Then he tried to drink. He failed. The wine came back up. 

“He’s choking!” Margaery gasped. _So that's how it kills._ Nobody had told Margaery what poison they would be using, or how it worked. She hadn't really cared to know what would be in her wedding chalice. Her cruel stupid husband’s face was turning red. Not wine-flush, but something more ominous.

“Help the poor boy!” her grandmother shouted. “Dolts! Will you all stand about gaping? Help your king!” 

They both knew there was nothing to be done. Joffrey was dying. He was already clawing at his throat; his face was turning from dark red to purple, dark as the wine that had killed him. The blood that seeped up from the scratches he’d torn in his neck was bright by comparison, and the whites of his eyes stood out horribly.

She’d helped to do this. She’d had to. Joffrey would have beaten her, hurt her, hurt her family. There had been no choice.

She’d never helped kill a man before.

 

\---

 

It was surprisingly easy to weep mostly-false tears into her grandmother’s arms. It truly was a horrible sight, from which she was glad enough to avert her eyes. “Be brave, be brave,” her grandmother reminded her. 

It was harder to keep her mind on her performance. Was Lord Tyrion still there, or had he tried to flee? Lady Sansa? Margaery dared not look up and around to confirm. She had to keep crying; nobody could suspect that she had known this was coming.

When Cersei Lannister screamed, Margaery finally dared look up. The Kingsguard were trying to pry the Queen Mother away from her son, while there was already a dog sniffing at the corpse. Lying there dead in a puddle of wine and other fluids, Joff didn’t look so scary.

_Cruel and stupid. Cruel and stupid and crowned. Too dangerous to live._ Yet so pathetic, dead.

There was still a musician in the gallery. There must be. Someone was playing a dirge. It took all Margaery’s effort not to laugh at the thin, silly sound. If she had started laughing, it might have come out a touch hysterical.

Her mother came to her side as well. “He choked, sweetling,” she said, loud enough to be overheard by the crowd of notables around them. “He choked on the pie. It was naught to do with you. He choked. We all saw.”

In yet another moment that could not have been more perfect if Margaery’s grandmother had written out a script, Cersei Lannister chose that moment to come back to her senses. “He did not choke,” she said. Her voice was slightly rough from the screaming. “My son was poisoned. Kingsguard, do your duty.”

Oh, by all the gods. He was standing right there – she had been certain that Lord Tyrion would leave. Margaery would have thought he was smarter than that. 

“My lady?” Loras asked.

“Arrest my brother,” Cersei said. “He did this, the dwarf. Him and his little wife. They killed my son. Your king. Take them! Take them both!” 

Lord Tyrion did not put up a fight. He did not even look shocked at the accusation. But Sansa Stark was nowhere to be seen. Margaery scanned the hall as best she could while pretending to shake her head in shock and denial, but could not see her anywhere.

Had Sansa run, then? Margaery half wished it would do her some good. For all she and her family needed someone to blame for this, she did not relish the thought of the other girl in a dungeon, much less executed.

No point in worrying now. The goldcloaks would find her. Margaery could only hope they would be gentle.

The High Septon was finishing off the prayer for the dead, interrupted as it had been by Cersei’s orders. Margaery managed to say the last few lines along with him, and then her mother and grandmother helped her from the hall.

 

\---

 

It took Margaery an hour to undress and to wash the stink of the hall away. It seemed that everything she had worn smelled of wine, and for some reason the thought had made her empty her stomach once she gained the privy. For the first time in a long time she was alone in her bedchamber, pleading distress to her worried cousins. She was just putting on a bed robe, finally clean and very tired, when her grandmother entered unannounced.

“You were very brave today, girl,” Lady Olenna said.

“It was horrible,” Margaery said. There were ears everywhere. Besides, it was not entirely a lie.

She wasn’t sad for Joffrey, exactly. She wasn’t grieving. She felt bad because he was stupid and it was easy. And he was the first person she had watched die, ever. Not even knowing he deserved it made it any less disgusting. She hadn’t known he would shake so, or void his bowels at the end. She hadn’t thought he would look so frightened.

Nor had she prepared herself for the resignation on Tyrion Lannister's face as he was dragged away, or Cersei shrieking for her guards to find Sansa Stark. That did cause her a twinge or two of guilt. But only a twinge or two. Lady Olenna was no doubt right about her getting over that as well.

“Quite.” Her grandmother's expression quite plainly said _not as horrible as what would be happening to you right now, otherwise._ “You get some sleep, if any of us will be able to sleep with all these bells clanging away. There’ll be more to do in the morning.”

More dress fittings, for one. A widowed queen needed a good mourning gown. The performance wasn’t over yet. She hoped she could still make herself weep convincingly without Joffrey actually there dying in front of her. Tears had been easy enough then.

“Thank you, grandmother,” Margaery said. “I believe I will.” 

Sleep came easier than she thought, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
